Chapter TWENTY-ONE
“What?” I said, my voice rising. “You went to that crime scene in spite of that threat? Are you crazy?” I didn’t like her being a target and I didn’t think she was taking the threats seriously enough.
“Calm down, Matt,” J.D. said. “I wouldn’t have gone if I’d thought somebody would try to shoot me. Last time he waited a couple of days to come after me.”
“For some reason,” said Jock, “whoever is murdering these women has you in his sights, too. I know our working hypothesis is that the guy running the show is probably someone you put away. But we might be sniffing the wrong trail. If so, when we figure out the reason for wanting you dead, we might be able to find the bastard.”
“None of this makes any sense to me,” J.D. said. “I was a rookie detective when the killings happened in Miami. I was just a small part of a larger task force, and we never found the killer. But if it’s not tied to those murders—and the murder weapon says it is—why is the guy after me?”
“You’re pretty sure it’s not somebody you arrested later?” Jock asked.
“So far, I can’t find anybody who would have been involved in any way with the Miami murders and who had some contact with me.”
“What about the other detectives on the task force?” I asked. “Have any of them had any death threats over the years?”
“No. I checked. The chief of detectives talked to everybody on that task force and none of them have been approached. Two of the detectives are dead, but both of them died of natural causes several years ago. My old partner couldn’t come up with anyone who we thought could be involved.”
“Do you think the guy committing the murders here is just using the dead women as bait to get to you?” I asked.
“That doesn’t make any sense. He could get me with a lot less trouble,” she said. “I’d be pretty easy pickings on the key most any time.”
“Then why the dead ladies on our island?” I asked
“I think they’re connected,” she said, “but I can’t figure out why.”
“Maybe,” said Jock, “the guy is just as twisted as the one in Miami. Or maybe our murderer is the one from Miami who’s just been asleep for twelve years. For whatever reason.”
“Two problems with that theory,” said J.D. “One, serial killers don’t just stop. They get too much of a rush out of the murders. Particularly the ritualistic ones like we have. Secondly, even if the guy was in prison or for some reason just decided to take a twelve-year sabbatical, why would he be after me? I can’t see where I fit into this.”
“There’s a connection there somewhere,” I said. “We just don’t see it yet.”
“Do you want to stay involved in this, Jock?” asked J.D. “I’m pretty sure Nell Alexander was just a random victim. No connection to your agency.”
“Intended or not, the bastard took out one of ours. I’m in until we get him. The director said to stay as long as I need to. He’s ready to give you whatever help he can from Washington.”
J.D. nodded. “I’ll keep you in the loop. Tell your director we appreciate his offer.”
We pulled into the parking lot at Leffis Key. The crime-scene truck and two Bradenton Beach police cruisers were still there, parked amid several civilian cars. Perhaps twenty people dressed in shorts and casual shirts milled about on the sand parking area. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung across the entrance to the preserve, and a uniformed cop stood behind it, keeping out the curious who gather at every tragedy.
J.D. got out as I pulled to a stop. She stood at the open door and said, “I’m going to the station. I want to get an update on what’s going on. Do you guys want to meet for lunch and let me fill you in?”
I looked at my watch. It wasn’t quite ten, early for a day that was already long. “Dry Dock?” I asked.
“Sure. Grab a table outside. See you at noon.”